EIGHTY.

“Come on, Miss Bishop, open the door.” He yells, banging on the door again, and I watch as it rattles on the fragile hinges.

I yank it open.

The last thing I need right now is for my father to wake up or the women in the neighbourhood to see him and start gossiping.

I poke my head out the door and look up and down the street, until I am confident he has not been seen, at which point I bring him inside and close the door behind him.

I turn around, leaning my back against the door, and I glare at him with my arms folded across my chest.

“What do you want and why are you here?” I hiss with annoyance as he goes about the living room, taking in his surroundings and most certainly passing judgement on our shabby way of life.

“You called, I got worried and decided to come and check on Mr Bishop myself.” He stops walking and stares at me.

“It's late.” I cast a glimpse at the clock on the wall. “It's after ten o'clock, he's asleep, I'm tired, and you should leave.”

He chuckles, settling u